


Hitchhiker Blues

by rasputinian



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Drugs, Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Slurs, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, bad decisions made easy, buzzo's massive schlong, having sex instead of talking about feelings, theyre nasty! real gross men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15063227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasputinian/pseuds/rasputinian
Summary: Two nasty boys commiserate in the only ways they know how.





	Hitchhiker Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reptile-house](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=reptile-house).



> This was a commission for reptile-house that I had a lot of fun writing! If you want me to write something for you, reach out to me on twitter @rasputinian or via email at rasputinovitch.writes@gmail.com. Pay me money so I can afford to do research for my writing (drink wine)!

Waking up alone isn’t new for Terry. When he sits up on his little dirt nest only to find that the Wet Bandits are all gone: Sloppy Joe, Slippery Pete, Damp Daniel, even Wet Willy, he barely even reacts. He just tenses his jaw and tries to keep his lip firm, discards his running list of themed names he could take, and moves on.

The solutions aren’t new either. It’s just forty magazines for him to buy enough liquor to wipe his memory and his emotions clean. It’s pure white lightning, and it smells like bleach. It won’t kill him though. Not yet. He finds a spot in a burnt-out metal building to hide himself through another bender and nestles himself into a corner, in the shadows behind mostly-intact wooden crates, some kind of collapsed metal beam. This probably used to be a warehouse, he thinks. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s enough to keep him hidden through the night like a little rabbit, safe from anything bigger.

His tolerance has gotten pretty high. He throws it back, barely lets it hit his tongue, savors the burn that engulfs his mouth anyway, but it isn’t until he’s almost done with the handle that he feels it kick in. He’s there, and, then, he’s gone. He doesn’t remember falling asleep until he is awake once again.

Drunk sleep never lasts as long as Terry would like. Normally, it’s still dark when he wakes up, mostly sober and, if he’s lucky, mostly not hungover. But, as Terry peeks out into the waking world, it’s warm and bright. Sweat pools where his body folds, and he stirs through the slickness. As he eases himself into consciousness, though, he realizes something is wrong. The warmth is too close, the light too bright to be coming from the holes in the ceiling.

It’s a fire. He isn’t alone.

He turns slowly, tries to make as little noise as possible. In the light of the fire, he can see that the room is full of men, unnaturally wide smiles frozen on their faces like something out of a nightmare. He brings his vision into clearer focus. They’re wearing masks, he realizes, but he’s not sure if that makes things better or worse. It makes it harder to tell whether or not they’ve noticed him. It’s then that he realizes they’re missing limbs. Hands, arms, legs: they’ve been cut away with surgical precision. This isn’t good. This isn’t good. This isn’t good. Terry’s heart beats shallow like a rabbit’s, and he’s got to get out, and he’s scampering away on all fours, stealth be damned, but he doesn’t get far before he runs headlong into something. It’s a person. His heart drops.

He’s huge. Terry isn’t short, but this guy has to be a whole head taller than him, and he’s twice as wide. All muscle, defined and laid bare before him. He’s not wearing a shirt, just pants and shoulder pads, paint that highlights the sharp angle of his cheekbones. The top of his head is balding and light, spared by the sun, in contrast to the pink bake of his nose and cheeks, the bright red of his lips.

“You’re awake,” he says. Terry is frozen. “You want some water?” he asks. The question barely registers, and his voice isn’t as scary as Terry had expected, but it sends a jolt through him anyway. He scurries backwards like a trapped animal until his head hits metal, but the pain barely registers through the fear. “You’ve gotta have a killer hangover, what with all this.” He taps the empty bottle of potato liquor with his foot, and Terry can feel his stomach turn with the clink of glass. “Passing out like that’s a good way to get yourself killed. Was that what you were trying to do?”

“No,” Terry whimpers. “I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll leave. I-“

“Calm the fuck down,” the other man says, and, before Terry can apologize again, he’s taking Terry’s arms in his hand, and he could probably break the fucking bone if he tried, but he’s almost gentle, and he’s putting a bottle of water in Terry’s hands, and Terry can’t stop shaking.

“Hey. Relax.” He steadies the bottle in Terry’s hands with one hand. He snaps his fingers with the other. Once. Twice. Right in Terry’s face. He tries to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps.

“Drink the water,” the other man commands. Terry does as he’s told. “What’s your name?” he asks. Terry takes a gulp of air as he lowers the bottle from his lips.

“Terry,” he says. He feels too shaky and red to give his full introduction. Panic isn’t a good look for the illustrious Lord of Hints.

“I’m Buzzo.”

“Nice to m-“ Terry runs out of breath before he can finish his sentence. Buzzo chuckles, sharp and high-pitched, and Terry flinches.

“God, you’re pathetic.” Terry still isn’t sure that he’s not going to piss his pants, so he doesn’t disagree. He just sucks the water from the bottle and keeps his eyes low. He’s hyper-aware of Buzzo’s gaze, so quiet and canny. It holds on him even as Buzzo takes a seat on a crate beside Terry. “So, what’s your story?” he asks.

“No story,” Terry answers. Buzzo sniffs incredulously.

“Nobody drinks a whole bottle by themselves for fun.” Terry feels like he’s been told that before, but he doesn’t want to think about it. “Rough night?”

“More than just a night,” he says dryly.

“You trying to kill yourself?” Terry has to think for a second.

“Nah,” he says finally.

“Good. You did a shit job if you were.” Terry takes a breath steady enough to try his hand at a joke.

“Have a little faith in me. I’d do it right.”  It doesn’t come out funny, but Buzzo chuckles anyway. The laugh doesn’t set Terry at ease as much as he expects. There’s something about it that isn’t quite right. Buzzo asks another question before Terry can think on it for too long.

“So what happened?”

“Got ditched by the guys I was with.”

“That blows.”

“You’re telling me.” Terry sighs. “Just, like, left in the middle of the night. It’s one thing if they let me know they’re leaving. At least leave a note or something.” Buzzo hums in acknowledgement or sympathy or maybe even compassion. It’s just enough to keep him talking.

“I feel like a hitchhiker sometimes.” Terry swallows and gives himself a little pause to determine whether or not Buzzo wants him to go on, if he wants himself to, but Buzzo looks at him intently. He’s listening. “Like, emotionally. Like, somebody will pick me up, and we’ll talk, and everything will be good for a while. Like, we’ll get along well, or at least I think we’ll get along, and I think we’ll be getting close, but, at the end of the day, I always get left on the side of the road, you know? I’m never quite where I need to be. I fucking hate it.” Terry swallows again; the words sting a little more than he expected. “Sorry. I’m just word vomiting over here.”

“As long as you don’t actually vomit,” Buzzo answers, and Terry chuckles, but the smile feels unnatural at the corners of his mouth. He needs to be drunk again, he thinks, he feels. “I think I know what you mean. Kind of, at least.” Terry turns to him, something like fear in his chest, but it’s different than before. Buzzo’s eyes are cast out past the masked men scattered around the fire’s light, towards somewhere distant. Terry doesn’t know how much is truly there and how much is in his head, projected onto this stranger, but Buzzo’s voice is softer, and the hard lines of his face have smoothed. “You can never hold down what you need long enough to keep it.”

“Yeah,” Terry says softly. He turns his face away from Buzzo’s. The moment is too soft, too dangerous. Terry knows it too well, and he knows how far it can go. “I mean,” he says, trying to push the sting from his eyes, “it’s complete bullshit that they left me. I’m so useful.”

“Yeah? What’re you good at?”

“I give good advice.”

“Really?” Terry doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“I mean, some people call me the Lord of the Tutorial. You seen the signs everywhere?”

“That’s you?” Buzzo asks, a little bit of a smile, and Terry can feel himself glowing like a stoked fire.  

“Your hintful helper, in the flesh.”

“I’ve been seeing those for a while. I was wondering who’s been writing them.”

“They’re just little helpful hints,” Terry says, and, then, he says something that feels stupid, too childish for the situation. “I like helping people.” Buzzo smiles, almost gentle, and Terry smiles back in the same way, like they’re sharing a little secret.

“You’re too nice,” Buzzo says, and maybe he doesn’t mean it as a good thing, but it feels so sincere, so tight in his chest. He sits with it, soft and intimate, for a long while before deciding to make a move.

He shifts so that he’s sitting in front of Buzzo, below him and between his legs. There’s a good foot and a half of space between them, a space Terry doesn’t feel right bridging with his body, but he reaches out with his hand and runs his open palm, gentle fingers, over Buzzo’s inner thighs, over his groin, back again. Terry looks up at him, waiting for a response.

“What’re you doing?” Buzzo asks flatly and like he very much knows what Terry is doing.

“Thanking you for taking care of me,” he answers. “If you’re down.”

“This how you thank guys you just met?”

“Yeah.” There’s a second where Terry worries he’s misread the situation, but he tries not to let it show. Then, Buzzo’s hand is in his hair, and he’s pulling his face closer, and _yeah_. Terry usually likes to start things slow, but Buzzo’s surprisingly tight grip on his head at keeps him from getting a good angle as he places slow, open mouthed kisses over the fabric. Even through his pants, Terry can tell he’s big. His own dick throbs, but he doesn’t dare touch it. He’s reluctant to even make a move for the other man’s fly. He’s almost afraid to take it further, like this momentary trust is too delicate to risk but that this is the only way to extend it, to nurture the heavy and bright feeling in his chest for a little longer.

“You don’t care about them watching?” Buzzo asks with a smirk. Terry returns the smile.

“There’s plenty of the Hintlord to go around.” Buzzo’s smile widens, and he unbuttons his fly. Terry pounces, all but pushes Buzzo’s hands out of the way to pull his pants down just enough to take his cock out. He’s not even completely hard yet, but Terry doesn’t have the patience to tease him anymore. He worships Buzzo’s cock, works the base with his hands while he kisses and licks the head, pops it in and out of his mouth while one hand sinks lower to massage his balls.

“Yes, baby,” Buzzo breathes, and Terry hates being called baby, but his voice sounds so good. Terry’s hand dips down to touch himself, but Buzzo catches him by the wrist. “Hands on me.” Terry’s so hard that it hurts, but he does as he’s told. Buzzo’s fingers tangle in his hair as he swirls his tongue around his dick, sinks down, pulls back again. His hands wander over Buzzo’s thighs, admire his stomach, ruffle through his pubic hair. He’s gorgeous, Terry thinks, like a statue, so far out of his league. This has to be a pity fuck. But, when he looks back up, Buzzo is watching him. His face is quiet, satisfied. Terry pulls away.

“I want you to fuck me,” Terry gasps, a strand of spit still connecting his mouth and Buzzo’s cock.

“You think you deserve it?” Terry nods. “Show me.” Terry smiles something sly. He wants a show? He’ll give him one. Terry’s eyes lock with Buzzo’s as he licks at the slit with the tip of his tongue, slow and deliberate. Then, all at once, he takes his cock into his throat. He works himself lower until his nose is almost touching the flat of Buzzo’s stomach. The little bit that he can’t reach he soothes over with his hands. He can’t help but tear up a little bit as he chokes around him, but it’s all worth it when he hears Buzzo’s voice. “Fuck yes,” he hisses, his head tilted back like he can’t take it. “Nasty little bitch.” Terry moans around him. “What, you like that? You like hearing what a fucking bitch you are?” Terry wants to say yes, but Buzzo’s holding his head firmly in place. He looks up at him with pleading eyes. That’s when Buzzo thrusts even deeper into his mouth.

Terry barely has a gag reflex anymore, but he can feel his limit being tested as Buzzo holds him still, fucks his throat slow and deep. Buzzo alternates between pulling and stroking Terry’s hair, says firmly into his ear, “Take it.” And he does. When he finally releases Terry, there’s something dark in his eyes.

“Hands and knees.” Terry throws himself into position, completely shameless.

“I got lube in my bag,” he says, and he hears Buzzo open up his pack. There’s the click of plastic, and there’s the cold. It’s just a little bit, and Buzzo works his fingers into Terry’s ass fast and rough, and, fuck, he knows it’s probably not enough lube, that it’s a lot with just Buzzo’s fingers, but Terry wants it. He doesn’t care.

“I’m gonna fucking wreck your ass.”

“Please,” Terry breathes. Buzzo presses the tip against the cleft of Terry’s ass until it’s inside of him, just enough for it to hurt, and Terry’s eyes roll back. “Jesus, you’re so big.”

“Surprised you can take it.” He pushes in deeper, and Terry lights up, every nerve at once. It’s barely even started, and he’s already breathing hard. He’s pathetic. “You been getting a lot of practice?” Terry nods, mouths _yeah_. “Fucking slut.” Terry nods, he is, he is, he is. “Yeah, you’d let everyone in here put a load in you if they wanted. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Terry chokes out. It hurts, but it feels so good, and Buzzo isn’t even trying to hit his prostate but he’s so thick that he can’t help but rub against it. Buzzo presses down between Terry’s shoulder blades, face down, ass up, and Terry tries not to entertain the idea that Buzzo might not like looking at his face. He tries to focus on the feeling, the words, nothing else.

“Maybe I’ll let them fuck you when I’m done with you.” Terry’s face is so red, Buzzo’s words going straight to his dick. “Give them my sloppy seconds. I’ll just watch. You won’t be able to fucking walk by the time they’re done with you.” Terry moans in response and pushes his ass back onto Buzzo. He’s slamming into him, no mercy. Terry turns his head and looks back to the fire. He doesn’t know if the rest of Buzzo’s gang is watching; their masks don’t let on, but they can definitely hear the way their skin slaps together, his own breathing that slips into moans when Buzzo fucks him just right. Buzzo grips the back of his neck with one hand, his thumb on Terry’s throat, and he’s right there, but Buzzo catches his wrist again when he reaches to jerk himself off.

“No hands. You think you can cum on just my dick?” And Terry wants to say yes, feels like it’s what he should say, but he knows his body and how, even though he can feel that pre-orgasm upon him, scalpel-sharp, he needs a little bit more.

“No,” he admits, and the words knot up in his raw throat. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” He swallows. “Please let me cum.” He expects Buzzo to draw it out, to torture him with not-close-enough until he’s crying. That’s what most guys do. That might be what Terry wants him to do. But Buzzo leans over him until his stomach is flush to Terry’s back, and his lips are right on the shell of Terry’s ear.

“You got ten seconds.” Buzzo doesn’t even make it to three. Terry tumbles over the edge, comes so hard it pulses through him like an electrical shock, like a migraine, vision all white. Terry means to shout, but it comes out soaked through. For a while, he lies there, tender and shaking, his hips hoisted up in Buzzo’s thick, strong hands. He’s still fucking him, and the edge is wearing off, but Terry doesn’t care. He works his oversensitive cock in his hands and prays this will last long enough for him to get it up again.

It doesn’t. Buzzo comes almost silently, but Terry feels it, the throb and the flood as Buzzo fucks himself through his his orgasm. He didn’t offer to pull out, Terry realizes, but this is what he wanted anyway.

“God,” he whispers, still-hot cum dripping down his thigh. “God, yeah.” Above him, Buzzo laughs. Terry wishes for this moment to last forever, prays even, but it’s not long until Buzzo pulls out and leaves him empty. Empty. Terry can feel the afterglow giving way to the afterguilt. He starts thinking, despite himself, about how he just let a complete stranger fuck him, come in him, how he’s ass-up in front of twenty some odd guys. How this isn’t the first time. Maybe this is a pattern now. Maybe this is just something he does. He’s an idiot.

Buzzo cleans Terry off with a cloth of unknown origin, and the contact pulls him back to the moment. He pulls his pants up and pushes himself upright. Buzzo is clothed again, or at least as clothed as he was before. Terry watches as he lies back on the ground, interlacing his fingers behind his head, and shifts himself comfortable. His eyes drift shut, and, for a while, he doesn’t say anything.

“You good?” Terry asks, trying to sound casual.

“Great,” Buzzo answers, a little smile. Terry pauses.

“Did I help?” he teases. Buzzo winks an eye open.

“You helped a lot.” Terry smiles and lies down alongside Buzzo. They don’t touch. Terry figures that might be a little too intimate for the moment. He doesn’t want to come across as too needy.

“Tell me about you,” Terry says, and Buzzo scoffs.

“What’s there to know?”

“You’re in charge of all of these guys?” Buzzo nods. “So you’re pretty tough.” Buzzo shrugs. “So what’s your angle? What’s your gang’s theme or whatever? That’s the thing with gangs out here: they all have a gimmick. Have you noticed that?” Buzzo doesn’t respond for a moment, and Terry worries that he’s put out with him, but he reaches into his pocket. A grin forms on his face as Buzzo turns to face him, and, for a moment, Terry feels fear pang somewhere deep within him.  

“This,” Buzzo answers, holding a round, blue pill between his thumb and forefinger. “Pure Joy.” Terry doesn’t say anything. He stares into the perfect blue. He thinks. “Have some,” Buzzo says. Terry shakes his head.

“I probably shouldn’t. I think I  still have, like, alcohol in my system.” Buzzo’s lip quirks. “Suit yourself,” he seems to say. Or maybe something else. The more time goes on, the more Terry finds himself guessing instead of feeling. Buzzo pops the pill into his mouth and swallows dry. Terry’s throat hurts, but, if it bothers Buzzo, he doesn’t let on. He just lies back again, a dreamlike smile on his red lips. Buzzo is so still, like he’s been emptied out, like he’s dead. Terry watches his chest rise and fall, the only proof that he’s not. The rest of the camp is just as still. The masked men barely move, and, when they do, they’re silent like ghosts, still bearing amputation wounds from life. Terry turns away, doesn’t want to look anymore. He tries to meld his body into Buzzo’s, his face hidden in the other man’s armpit, and wills himself into that death-silence.

 

When Terry finds the building empty the next morning, he isn’t surprised. Waking up alone is nothing new. He sits up in the hollowed out warehouse, and he scans the room for Buzzo, the masked men, anyone. They’re all gone.

It’s too early to cry. It’s too early to be anything but practical. Terry sits upright, consciousness manifesting as a headache that squeezes at the front of his skull. He checks his bag to see if anything is missing. His paltry supply of magazines are still there. His journals, his notes, his scavenged pens: they’re all there. He sighs as if he’s relieved. He puts his hands on his thighs and tries to figure out what to do next; he can’t afford to get drunk again, and, with the way his head is pounding, he’s not sure that he wants to. Of course, neither of those things have stopped him in the past. He runs his hands up and down his pants legs, letting the texture ground him in the moment enough so that he can think.

There’s something unfamiliar in his pocket. He feels it dumbly over the fabric for a moment, checks and rechecks himself with every pass to confirm that, yes, there’s something there. When he reaches in, he knows exactly what it is. Three little, round pills, blue like Buzzo’s eyes.

He cradles them in his palm and rolls them around like marbles. In the slivers of light that pierce through the metal ceiling, he can see his face in the blue.

**Author's Note:**

> asphodel chapter 4 coming out soon! see ya


End file.
